


let me name the stars for you

by iwasfollowingyou



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Body Dysphoria, Body Image, Body Worship, Established Relationship, Fluff, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Scars, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Indulgent, Trans Character, Transgender, Trust, i wrote this for myself but y'all can read it if you want, top surgery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:14:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25697125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwasfollowingyou/pseuds/iwasfollowingyou
Summary: You said Tell me about your books, your visions madeof flesh and light and I said This is the Moon. This isthe Sun. Let me name the stars for you. Let me take youthere.stewy sees roman's scars.
Relationships: Stewy Hosseini/Roman "Romulus" Roy
Comments: 10
Kudos: 23





	let me name the stars for you

_“I had a dream about you. We were in the gold room  
where everyone finally gets what they want.  
You said Tell me about your books, your visions made  
of flesh and light and I said This is the Moon. This is  
the Sun. Let me name the stars for you. Let me take you  
there. The splash of my tongue melting you like a sugar  
cube…We were in the gold room where everyone  
finally gets what they want, so I said What do you  
want, sweetheart? and you said Kiss me.”  
— Richard Siken, "Snow and Dirty Rain"_

They’re both halfway into their second glasses of wine when Stewy asks, “Why do you never take your shirt off?”

He regrets it as soon as it comes out of his mouth. He can see Roman closing himself off, slamming the gates and shutting Stewy out.

“Because I don’t fucking want to.”

“I didn’t mean—I didn’t—” Stewy stammers, trying to backpedal as quickly as he can. “I wasn’t asking you to. I’m just—I’m just wondering, that’s all.” 

“Because I don’t like people seeing me.” 

“Okay.” Stewy nods. “That’s okay. “

“You don’t have to patronize me.”

“I’m not.” Stewy sets his glass down on the coffee table. “Rome. Hey.” 

Roman looks down into his drink. He takes a sip, then finishes off the glass. He twirls it in his fingers, studying how the light reflects off of it. “It’s ugly, alright?” 

“What?” 

“My—” Roman gestures, hand circling the air in front of his chest. “I’ve got—it’s, you know.” He swallows. “Scars.” 

Stewy tilts his head. “Scars?” 

“From surgery.” 

“Oh.” Yeah, he should have fucking realized. “Right.”

Roman has never talked about it—about any of it, really. Stewy knows. Of course he knows. He’s known Roman since they were kids. He had been there when Logan had finally snapped and sent Roman to military school. He had been there when Roman had come home with a haircut and dark circles under his eyes and a _fuck you, fuck your family, fuck the world_ attitude. He had been there—less frequently, but still there—when Roman’s voice started dropping, when he was home from college for the summer and cursed Stewy out whenever he came by, before locking himself in his room and refusing to come out.

He had lost track at some point, he guesses. Not that he ever really kept track in the first place. Roman has always been just _Roman_. Neither of them talks about it very often. Stewy doesn’t think about it often. It’s just how it is.

He thinks Roman prefers it like that. 

Stewy is setting their clean glasses out to dry when Roman asks, “Do you want to?” 

Stewy looks up at him, eyebrows furrowed. “What?” 

Roman shifts his weight awkwardly. “See.” 

“See—oh.” Stewy studies him carefully. “Oh.”

“Forget it, you don’t—it’s fucking gross, you don’t want to—”

“No,” Stewy cuts him off. “Hey. If you want to, then—then yeah. But only if you want to. I don’t want you to think I’m forcing you to—”

“Shut the fuck up.” Roman rolls his eyes. “You never fucking _force_ me to do anything.” 

Stewy nods and follows Roman into the bedroom, turning off the lights as he goes. Roman stands near the bed. The only light in the room comes from the lamp on the bedside table; Roman is the only thing illuminated. His hands are shaking. Stewy wants to take them in his. He knows he shouldn’t. He knows that at this point he shouldn’t dare touch Roman. He stands a few feet away, hands at his sides. Roman is looking at the floor.

“Just don’t—don’t make some shitty comment or fucking joke about—”

“Roman.” Stewy laughs softly. 

“I’m being serious.”

He meets Roman’s eyes. Stewy knows he would never admit it, but Roman is fucking terrified.

“I wouldn’t do that, Rome,” Stewy tells him. “You know I wouldn’t.” 

Roman watches him carefully for a second, like he’s gauging whether or not Stewy is being honest with him. Stewy does his best not to let his expression give anything away.

Finally, Roman takes a deep breath and pulls his shirt off over his head, dropping it onto the floor in front of him.

It’s nothing like Stewy was expecting.

The way Roman talks about it, the way disgust creeps into his voice, the way he hides, the way he flinches whenever Stewy comes close to touching his chest—Stewy was picturing something horrible, some rough, jagged scars, like claw marks across Roman’s torso.

All that’s there are two thin, straight lines, just beneath his pecs. If Stewy hadn’t been looking for them, he doesn’t think he would have even noticed.

His eyes trace the scar on the left side from the center of Roman’s chest to the side, where it turns upwards just slightly, following the line of Roman’s rib. The scar on the right side is the same. They’re nearly perfectly symmetrical. It’s obvious that whoever performed the surgery knew what the fuck they were doing. Stewy isn’t surprised by that; the Roys can afford to go to the best doctors in the world without even flinching at the bill.

Stewy’s eyes find Roman’s face. His eyes are closed, mouth pursed slightly, jaw clenched. Uncomfortable, but he doesn’t say so.

“Rome,” Stewy says softly. “Can I—are you good if I—if I, you know, touch?”

There’s a long pause. Stewy anticipates the _no_ , keeps his hands at his sides, ready to back away. Roman swallows. 

His voice is quiet when he says, “Yeah.”

Stewy takes a careful step forward.

“Wait,” Roman says. “Can I—do you mind if I, uh, lay down?” He clears his throat.

“Course.”

Roman sits down on the bed, lets out a breath, then lays back against the pillows. He closes his eyes again. Stewy places a gentle hand on his thigh before climbing over him, straddling his hips. 

“This good?”

Roman nods wordlessly. Stewy keeps his weight on his knees, doing his best not to put too much pressure on Roman. Roman’s chest and stomach move up and down quickly. Stewy reaches out his hand, keeping his fingers an inch or so above Roman’s skin.

The tip of Stewy’s index finger brushes the inner edge of the scar that cuts beneath Roman’s heart. Roman shivers.

Stewy has to close his eyes and concentrate to feel the difference between the scar and the rest of Roman’s skin. He wonders how long they’ve been healing. He wants to ask. He doesn’t know if Roman would answer.

He opens his eyes again and traces the scar from edge to edge, his touch light. Roman’s breath hitches when Stewy reaches the outer edge and runs two fingers over it. He lifts his hand off of Roman’s chest, repeats the same motion on the other side. Stewy watches Roman’s face. He keeps his eyes screwed shut, but his expression is changing, almost imperceptibly.

Stewy can tell that Roman is doing everything he can to stop himself from shoving Stewy off of him and cursing him out. He’s grateful. He doesn’t dare say it out loud. He doesn’t want Roman to think he’s patronizing him. He doesn’t want Roman to feel as if this is something he owes to Stewy, as if somehow it’s Stewy’s right to see him like this.

This isn’t something he owes to Stewy. This is something he’s giving him willingly. Because he wants to. Because he trusts Stewy.

It makes Stewy’s heart ache as if it’s about to splinter into a thousand pieces.

Stewy leans down and presses his lips to Roman’s. Roman makes a soft noise in surprise, but he returns the kiss. When Stewy pulls away, Roman opens his eyes.

“Hey,” Stewy says with a small smile.

Roman swallows. “Hi.”

Stewy moves his thumb over Roman’s chest again. Roman’s eyes flutter shut.

“Hey,” Stewy says again. “Eyes on me.”

It takes a second, but Roman obeys. He looks up at Stewy, but doesn’t quite meet his gaze. Stewy lifts one hand up and brushes Roman’s hair off of his forehead.

“How long ago was this?” he risks asking.

Roman looks up at the ceiling. “I was twenty-two.”

Fresh out of college, about to go out into the real world—or as much of the “real world” as can be experienced when you’re a Roy. Stewy tries to think back to that year. Not many memories come to the surface. Most of his twenties are a blur. He doesn’t remember Kendall mentioning it. He doubts Kendall would have said anything. Why would he?

He thinks back to Roman’s teenage years, the years right after he came home from military school, when he wore nothing but black hoodies and locked himself in his room whenever Stewy came over.

He thinks about the summer he tagged along on their vacation to the south of France, because Kendall had asked and Logan hadn’t given a shit. Roman had never seemed comfortable in the water with them. Stewy hadn’t thought much about it then. He’s thinking about it now.

“And it’s better?”

Roman nods. “Yeah.”

He wants to ask why Roman still hates himself, then. He wants to ask why Roman hides himself constantly, refuses to take his shirt off, never wants to be seen by anyone, not even Stewy. He doesn’t ask.

He lowers himself down and kisses Roman’s collarbone. Roman lets out a quiet noise. He doesn’t tell Stewy to stop. 

Stewy kisses him again, and again, and again. He trails kisses all the way across Roman’s collarbones. Roman’s hand comes up and rests on his shoulder—not pushing, not forcing him away. Just resting. Holding on.

Stewy kisses down the center of Roman’s chest, looking up at him from beneath his eyelashes. Roman’s eyes are closed again, his head tilted slightly back. Stewy waits for a moment, giving Roman the chance to back out. Roman does nothing.

He presses his mouth to the inner edge of Roman’s right scar. Roman’s breath hitches. Stewy follows the line of the scar, kissing along every centimeter of it, all the way to where it ends, where it follows along the edge of Roman’s rib before it turns back into skin rather than scar tissue. He does the same thing to the other scar—light kisses, barely there, just brief touches to Roman’s warm skin.

He lifts his head. Roman opens his eyes. Stewy offers him a smile. Roman reaches up and twists his fingers in the back of Stewy’s hair, then tugs him towards his face. Roman is the one who kisses Stewy this time, the action careful, almost hesitant. Stewy cups Roman’s face in his hand, brushing his thumb across his cheek.

“Rome,” Stewy murmurs as they pull away.

“Yeah.” Roman’s breath is warm against his lips.

“You’re gorgeous.”

“Fuck off.”

Stewy sits back. Roman’s cheeks are flushed red. He refuses to meet Stewy’s eyes.

“I mean it,” Stewy tells him.

“Fuck off,” Roman repeats, but there’s no bite behind it.

“I’m not allowed to tell you how amazing you look?”

“No.” 

“Tough shit.” Stewy smiles. “‘Cause I’m gonna tell you anyway, fucker.”

Roman shakes his head. “You don’t have to fucking—”

“Don’t have to _what_?” 

“Lie to me, Stewy. You don’t have to fucking lie to me and tell me all this bullshit about how I’m—I’m still _perfect_ and _gorgeous_ and—and fucking whatever. I know I’m not, okay?” 

Stewy furrows his eyebrows. “Rome, what the fuck are you talking about?”

“You think I don’t know how I look?” 

He almost laughs. “No, I don’t think you do. Because if you can look at yourself in the mirror and not be the most confident, cocky motherfucker in the world, then I think you need to get your eyesight checked. Jesus, Roman.” 

“Shut up,” Roman mutters.

“You’re _hot_ , Rome.” Stewy winks at him. Roman punches his stomach half-heartedly. “And if you deny it, I’m just gonna be more fucking annoying about it.” Roman glares up at him. Stewy leans down and kisses him quickly. “Just accept a damn compliment, would you?”

“You’re the fucking worst.” 

“Yeah, I know.” Stewy smiles. “And you’re fucking gorgeous.” 

Roman’s cheeks turn a brighter red. If Stewy could take a picture of him like this, right now, and keep it forever—it’s fucking cheesy as hell. He doesn’t care. He wishes he could, just to save for himself. 

“Alright, get off me, fatass.” Roman pushes him. Stewy flops over onto his side and gazes at Roman. Roman turns his head towards him. “And stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like _that_.” Roman makes a face at him. Stewy kisses him. 

They get ready for bed in silence. Take turns in the bathroom, brush their teeth. Stewy makes sure all the lights are off, then strips off his t-shirt and sweats, climbs into bed in just his boxers. Roman stands by the bed for a minute, his back to Stewy, like he’s deciding something. Stewy’s gaze travels across his shoulders and down his spine, taking him in, studying how his shoulders slope, how the bumps of his spine are visible beneath his skin, how the freckles splattered across his back form tiny constellations if Stewy searches hard enough. 

Finally, Roman gets under the sheets wearing just his sweats—Stewy’s sweats, rolled over and tightened at the waist. He keeps his back to Stewy when he lays down.

“Roman?”

“Yeah.” 

Stewy places a hand on his hip. Roman tenses. 

“Okay?” Stewy asks.

“Okay.” 

Stewy pulls Roman back against him. Roman comes easily. His skin is warm beneath Stewy’s touch, but there are goosebumps on his arms.

Stewy tightens his arm around Roman. His bare chest presses against Roman’s bare back. He closes his eyes for a minute. It feels different. Good. Comfortable. 

He presses a kiss to Roman’s bare shoulder. Roman shivers.

“Goodnight, Rome,” he murmurs.

“Night.” It comes out as a shaky breath. 

Stewy kisses the back of Roman’s neck, then his shoulder again, just for good measure.

They’re silent for a while before he hears Roman whisper his name.

“Yeah?” he asks drowsily.

“Thank you.” 

Stewy smiles, kisses his shoulder again. “You’re welcome.” 

Roman lets out a long breath, then cuddles back against Stewy. Stewy repositions his arm around him so that his hand falls on Roman’s chest. His fingertips ghost over Roman’s skin as if reading braille, until he finds the thin line, and the movement stills. He can feel Roman’s heartbeat.

He thinks: _I love you._

He thinks he shouldn’t say it out loud.

He thinks he’ll have plenty of time to say it.

He waits until Roman has relaxed in his arms, his breaths even and slow, quiet murmurs falling from his lips. Roman talks in his sleep. Stewy had once thought it would be annoying. It’s comforting now.

He blindly traces over the scar beneath Roman’s heart, following the path as if he’s known it for years already.

He thinks again: _I love you._

He whispers it against Roman’s shoulder, so quietly it could be mistaken for an exhale.

They’re not there yet. Baby steps. This is another one, unexpected but more than welcome.

They’ll get there one day. Stewy is willing to wait.

However long it takes for Roman to finally trust him completely, for Roman to believe that Stewy isn’t going to hurt him, that Stewy is in this for the long haul, that Stewy can love him and that he does love him, and that it’s not some kind of cruel trick.

They’ll get there one day. 

He’s okay with waiting for one day.

**Author's Note:**

> trans roman holds a very special place in my heart and once i started thinking about this concept i couldn't stop until i had written something. if you liked this please leave kudos and comments and come say hi on tumblr @vaguelyprophetic xx


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